


liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort

by DullahansInSleepyHollow



Series: Patria and Her Three Citizens [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: E Enjolras, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Enjolras' French Boner, F Enjolras, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Foreshadowing, Future Character Death, Kid Fic, L Enjolras, M/M, Parent Amis, Parent Combeferre, Parent Courfeyrac, Parent Enjolras, Parent Grantaire, Sad Grantaire, Slice of Life, Suicide Attempt, Triplets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DullahansInSleepyHollow/pseuds/DullahansInSleepyHollow
Summary: "They may have come out identical, but his Citizens were nothing alike."Enjolras was many things, a patriot, a revolutionary, a friend and most notably: the father of three identical boys.Tiny hellions: E, F and L. The reasons why Enjolras was probably going to be dead by thirty-five.But then again, F is really good at bringing home strays.Cats, dogs, chameleons... and that scruffy artist who was about to throw himself off a bridge.





	liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to anyone who can guess the boys' names down below! <3
> 
> Enjoy! If y'all like it, this can be a series. :D

 

 

  
They may have come out identical, but his Citizens were nothing alike.

  
L was the one who could recite _The Social Contract_ by heart, who had actually listened when Enjolras read them _The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen_ as a bedtime story each night when they were small. L had insisted on dressing up as Robespierre for Halloween every single year since he was eight. He was the first of the Citizens to attend Les Amis de l'ABC meetings, back when they were little more than simply Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac sitting and talking about social change on a threadbare couch. Enjolras, or rather Combeferre as he was the one most often contacted by the Citizens' school, had only been called up once for disorderly conduct by L.

  
Some poor unfortunate kitchen staff member had given F a peanut-butter sandwich.

  
F being another of Enjolras' Citizens, the oldest of the three: F, E, L. Born in that same order.

  
They had been eleven years old at the time and all of them well-versed in F's moderate-to-severe, potentially lethal nut allergy. It hadn't been that big of a deal in retrospect, one of his brothers would happily have swapped with him. But, just to be on the safe side, L had marched up to the counter to exchange the sandwich and get a new tray. Worried precociously, about cross-contamination.

  
Only the same kitchen staff member had refused on the grounds that L had no proof of F's nut allergy on him, he would've had to walk back to the classrooms to rifle through their bags and by then lunchtime would be over. As well as the same sacred rule: each child got one entree per lunch hour, no matter how _greedy_.

  
L promptly took that sandwich and threw it in the man's face.

  
Which was probably an understandable reaction from a fifth-grader.

  
The protest he then staged in the middle of the lunchroom by standing up on a table and shouting: _Vive la République! Vive mon frére! Vive la Révolution!_

  
Was not.

  
Nor how he took off his red hoodie and started waving it like a banner of war, overexciting the other children long enough to join him in his crusade.

  
When the principal expressed this to an exhausted Combeferre, who had been on shift at the local hospital for about fourteen hours straight, there were no swiftly muttered apologies or contrite sympathy for having to deal with such an unruly child. All he got was an half-hour long lecture about the seriousness of food allergies, F's in particular, and molten-lava levels of anger from someone who rarely let such strong emotions show on his exterior. Combeferre marched right out of that office and plucked up L from his position sitting pouty and cross-legged on the hard office chairs. He then carried the little Citizen outside and drove them to an ice-cream place.

  
They shared a cotton-candy sundae and Combeferre watched quietly as L gave half to a homeless man sitting nearby, as well as a couple of crumpled dollars from his Spider-Man lunchbox. Which may have seemed awfully cheap to an adult, but to a child with meager amounts of pocket money, it was a small fortune.

  
" _You_ are your father."

  
Combeferre sighed softly, a warm smile taking a place of crowning glory on his lips. L was racing too far ahead to hear, but the little prophecy wasn't meant for him. Not really.

  
Yet the young doctor couldn't help but worry, amid L's gummy smiles and half-executed cartwheels down the sidewalk, that the pair was Icarus and Daedalus instead of Apollo and Hermes. That their little L was going to follow his burning bright father far too close to the sun, not seeing the danger that could lay in wait.

 

"Papa 'Ferre, _watch me!_ " 

 

The eager child yelled to him, raising his scabby palms for another flip. Combeferre cheered, leaving the sickening dower thoughts behind him.

  
-X-

  
E wasn't L. He was the sweet, quiet and contemplative one. Where as L was colder by contrast, loud and opinionated. It was apt to say that E was the sensitive one, yet he was also the one who would tear the world apart at the seams and remake it, all for the ones he loved. He followed his brothers in everything they did, in every way they asked, but that didn't mean he was a pushover. He loved fiercely and was always the one who invited the new classmate to sit beside him. Who loved to volunteer and found beauty in even the most visceral of pain. If L was the one to change the world, then E was the one who changed everyone he met.

  
E also loved playing soccer, he fell in love with the equality of the game and how good it made him feel when he was out on the pitch.

  
Rather accidentally though, his family didn't find out about his position on a nearby league until he got spectacularly hurt during one of their final matches of the season.

  
It was a Grade III sprain, which didn't look all that bad on paper, but in real life his ankle was on _fire_. The size and shape of a pitted grapefruit, mottled black and purple. He was a winger, his job was to run faster and longer than anyone else. Ergo when you want to cripple a team that's better than yours, you take out the most dangerous players. Like wingers. When E went down, he went down _hard_. He bit into the grass face first, it was a wonder that he didn't tear through his lips or bite through his cheeks.

  
Suffice to say, that he was out for the rest of that game, it took all his inner strength to simply hobble off the field under his own power.

  
Unfortunately for him, that strength soon deserted him and he couldn't put any sort of weight on his foot without crying out or feeling his vision start to darken around the edges. He was hugging that bench for all he was worth most of the night.

  
When the match was over, his coach ended up toting him home on his back. E was just lucky that he was the littlest out of the Citizens.

  
"M. Enjolras? I think I've got a little something that belongs to you!"

  
There was a vein of hidden mirth in his coach's voice, a welcome distraction since the guy had been a little pissy once E had vehemently refused the hospital and urgent care. The declaration was in addition to the strong knock that should've announced their presence to anyone inside.

  
But when the apartment door swung open, it was most assuredly not E's father on the other side. Nor even one of his brothers.

  
" _Holy bedazzled shit!"_

  
It was Courf.

  
"Cornflakes!" Oh yeah, definitely Courf. He'd never really grown out of their father's _Don't-You-Dare-Curse-Around-My-Citizens_ rule that had been in full-effect when they were younger. "What happened?!"

  
E just raised an eyebrow, sure the whole family unit hadn't known about the soccer league thing, but here he was: flamingo-ing on the doormat, dressed in a soccer team's uniform with long socks, shin guards and cleats. Sure, they were covered in gross caked-on mud and smears of red blood from his nose, but really? It should've been obvious.

  
"Got nailed hard on the pitch, I wrapped his ankle the best I could but it really doesn't look good." Didn't feel all that good either. "Are you the doctor?"

  
Courf opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a backfiring engine, before shaking his head and opening up his arms.

  
"No, I'm a barista." When he wasn't busy being a lawyer apparently. "That's Ferre and he's already on his way home." He surged forwards to wrap his arms around E's waist despite the mud and assorted debris, to carry him inside the apartment like he was still the baby Courf had fed with funny faces in a high-chair.

  
E ended up flopped on the couch, blonde curls in complete disarray, half of them slicked down with so much mud that he resembled F and his half-shaven floof. His bad foot was in Courf's lap and covered with enough frozen peas to cause the second Ice Age. He hadn't been aware that his ankle could feel any worse than it did before, but turns out frostbite can do that to a man. Courf also was frantically calling Combeferre, and when he didn't pick up, likely because he was driving, Joly.

  
"He just looks so bad, Jolllly. He's whiter than a sheet and shivering and his leg is turning _black_!"

  
E kind of felt bad for springing such a thing on Courfeyrac without any forewarning. He wasn't the kind of parent you surprised.

  
Unfortunately, the Citizen didn't have enough mental capability at the moment to wonder about the locations of his meddling brothers. He was so out of it, he hadn't even been aware of the door opening until there were hands touching his cheeks. He fully expected the sandy-blonde hair and dark eyes of Combeferre above him. Not the blonde curls and a scowl he saw in the mirror everyday. Their father could've passed for one of the Citizens himself, the slight lines around his mouth and eyes when one looked close enough were the only evidence to betray his true age. The same Citizens who were currently peering over their father's shoulders. F looked pale and speechless, L looked just as mutinous as usual.

  
"What happened!" It was more of a demand than a question. But then again, most things with his father usually were.

  
"My leg hurts."

  
E had meant for it to come out sarcastically, maybe with a little twist of his lips into a wry smile. A joke. Instead his voice broke midway through and a few tears slid down his cheeks before he could scrunch his eyes shut around them. His family was  _shook_. F looked like he was about to start crying too, L looked almost scared and their ever so capable father suddenly seemed so _lost_.

  
E wasn't exactly a crier.

  
Which was how he found himself squirreled into the back of a cab, his hurt leg in someone's lap and his mind hazy with the pain of being jostled. They were on the way to the hospital, after leaving a note for Combeferre just in case they couldn't reach him.

  
"So... a soccer team?"

  
E nodded at Joly, as the small Asian man wrapped his bad ankle with enough cottonwool to pad his skin from the hard fiberglass of his new blue cast, tenfold. It was never a question as to what color the thing was going to be. E was blue, L was red, and F was white. It was the same color scheme that had followed them since infancy. Back when one baby boy with fluffy blonde curls had been pretty much indistinguishable from another.

  
"I'm really good too."

  
Joly had pressed a swift kiss to his forehead as they waited for the cast to set.

  
"I'm not surprised."

  
Once he recovered, no one in Les Amis ever missed a single one of his games.

  
Although they always had to have at least two people flanking Grantaire, Enjolras, Bahorel, L, Jehan and Combeferre at all times. As they were the most frequent offenders for trying to run out onto the pitch every time E got fouled. He was little, yet another thing he'd inherited from his father, which made him an easy target. At least, if the opposing players could catch him that is.

  
_(Hint: almost nobody ever caught him_ ).

  
-X-

  
F was happy. It was the only descriptor that really sufficed when talking about him. He loved making cupcakes and trying out new dessert recipes on his family. Whipping up buttercream icing by hand and shoving cream-cheese frosting into the center of his red velvet cupcakes. And sometimes it seemed like F was the only one who could decipher their father's facial expressions. The ones that never seemed to match his mood or emotions. It didn't matter how pissed off or filled with righteous fury their father was or felt at the moment, ranting or raving where he stood. F could walk over and fling his arms around Enjolras' middle, calming him down within seconds.

  
He also liked to sit on nearby bridges and wait for anyone who may or may not have need of him, in his spare time.

  
It was how he met Grantaire.

  
He'd been just thirteen when he saw the desolate artist climb over the stone railing and stare into the frothy waters below. Staring into the depths like he was mere seconds away from letting go and taking a header into the unknown.

  
"Hi!" He popped up on the railing and nearly made the poor guy fall right then and there.

  
"Hey...?"

  
Grantaire had said, eyeing F suspiciously.

  
"Do you like cupcakes?"

  
Confusion. "Um... Yeah?"

  
F grinned, "Good! I make really good cupcakes, or at least my dads, uncles, aunts and brothers seem to think so. Red Velvet is my Dad's favorite, probably because it's like the blood of angry men stirring in his veins or something. Either that or because it's one of the colors of the French flag. He really gets a boner for France, you know?" Grantaire shifted, hopping up to sit on the railing beside the boy, as if sensing they were going to be in for the long haul. 

  
"Kid, does this have a point?" It was a tired, world-weary sigh, from the mouth of a broken man who sat staring off into the horizon.

 

"Yeah! So, I don't know if there's a heaven or whatever. And they probably have cupcakes there... if there is one that is." F's fingers wrapped around Grantaire's wrist, slowly and then all at once. "But they don't have mine." A bright indulgent smile. "So you should probably come try one before killing yourself."

  
Grantaire's head snapped over in an instant, eyes comically wide. As if being caught in the act was so embarrassing. As if they weren't literally sitting on a bridge above a rushing river of death.

  
"I-I wasn't..."

  
"Yeah. You were." He still hadn't let go of Grantaire's wrist, feeling the warm pulse of blood and raised scars there. "I'm F by the way."

  
A cocked eyebrow. _"F?"_

  
The Citizen shrugged. "What can I say, my real name is downright awful. What about you?"

  
"R." Accompanied by a familiar shit-eating grin. And F socked him in the shoulder with his free hand. Not hard enough to really injure, but enough for the older guy to wince and pout.

  
"Seriously?" The token Enjolras scowl marring his features.

  
"What?!" It came out of Grantaire's mouth like a whine. "It's _Grantaire."_

  
F snorted.

  
Then they walked home together, or well, it was more like F bouncing down the street and pointing out all his favorite things about the city. As if Grantaire hadn't lived there all his life. They shared cherry and tangerine snow-cones as F chattered gleefully and twirled around like a ballerina in the chilly night air. He was delighted when he found out that R was actually a ballet dancer. It was the best night the artist had had in a very long time. All because of a boy with an angel's face in a crushed velvet skirt and cherubic golden curls. As if Cupid had come to life before his eyes.

  
But the best part of the whole evening, was when the kid yanked him into a fancy apartment building and then into a gold-plated elevator. It took them to a floor with a carpet that probably cost more than Grantaire's whole place in one fell swoop.

  
And a single knock on a red door had a blonde demon charging out of it.

_  
"And where exactly have you been?!"_

  
F just wrapped his arms around his Dad's middle and blinked up at him with a not-at-all-apologetic smile. "I got really lost, but R helped me find my way home."

  
Enjolras looked up, and that seemed to be the first time he took notice of Grantaire, standing there and looking lost as all hell. F ducked around his father to head into the kitchen and nab a cupcake from where they were cooling on the countertop.

  
"Wow. So not only did Orpheus play me from Hades, but he then delivered me right into Apollo's waiting arms."

  
Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

  
"Nothing." Grantaire shook his head with a small smile. "I'm Grantaire."

  
An echoing smile. "Enjolras."

  
The next thing R knew, F was pushing a pretty cupcake into his hands and tugging him inside. "R is staying for dinner, okay Dad?"

  
Enjolras knew better than to argue.

  
And it was a turning point of Grantaire's life.

  
-X-

  
Four years later, and R stumbled down the stairs to grab a cup of coffee in the middle of the night.

  
After a long midnight painting session and a harrowing experience with drinking dirty paint water.

  
On his way, he spotted four little towheads sprawled on the fluffy couch. L was flopped over backwards, his back on the floor and legs standing straight up in the air. His hair was stained with streaks of Kool-Aid red, clad in his revolutionary pajamas and lightly snoring.

  
E was curled into a little ball, hair just as uncombed and unruly as Grantaire's own. Unsurprisingly his boxers were dotted with little soccer balls. His stuffed butterfly held tight against his chest. In the same way F was held tight against Enjolras'. The oldest of the Citizens was wearing a nightgown covered in blooming yellow sunflowers. And Enjolras was still in his wrinkled work suit and beige tie, brow furrowed as if he was about to tear a fellow lawyer a new one. Grantaire didn't have a blanket with him, but he did strip off his pink robe and lay it over whoever was closest.

  
Pressing a gentle kiss to everyone's foreheads as he passed by.

  
On his way into the kitchen, his eyes lingered for a few moments on his favorite picture as well, the one taken at he and Enjolras' wedding. Which let R join the ranks of those who claimed parentage of the Citizens. Right along with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who had raised the seventeen-year-olds with Enjolras from the day they were born, and most of the Amis who came later.

  
_"I love you_." It was unexpected.

  
And he didn't know who he was talking to, if anyone, but each of the towheads quirked their lips in slumber.

 

Oh yeah, it had taken a whole lot of shit, but Grantaire was finally home.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions about the triplets or have any ideas of what you want to see next, just let me know. :)


End file.
